


What happens in the Mind Palace

by Yesilian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mind Palace John, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesilian/pseuds/Yesilian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is shocked, he retreats to his Mind Palace and to memories of John to calm down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What happens in the Mind Palace

Sherlock opened the door and 221B greeted him with a fire burning in the hearth and papers, books and clothes strewn everywhere. It was chaos and the sounds from the kitchen welcomed him even more.  
There was the noise of someone doing the dishes and on top of that, a small, high voice talking so fast and in a pitch so high it made it difficult to understand. Sherlock rounded the corner and chanced a glance into their kitchen and was greeted by the most welcome scene his mind could have come up with.  
A young girl, maybe six or seven, sat on her knees on one of the chairs, bent over a notebook, with a pen in her hand. Her thick, blonde hair was cut in a short bob and continually falling into her eyes to her annoyance. It was her that was rattling on, about people at school and what somebody did and someone else said and really nothing at all.   
John stood at the sink, responsible for the noise of the washing up. He listened attentively, at least his face did, even though Sherlock could tell it was more for show than real attention. He was only humouring Anna. Now Anna saw Sherlock in the doorway.  
“Sherlock!” she yelled excitedly and jumped from her chair, making it wobble dangerously and it was only because of John’s quick reflexes that it didn’t fall over.   
“Anna,” he chastised but was ignored by the girl jumping at Sherlock, throwing her short arms around his waist.  
“Anna Jenkins’ parents have gotten her a dog, and Anna Jenkins says it’s because her parents love her real much and my parents don’t love me or else I would have gotten a dog, too, but I said that you love me and now you have to give me a dog or she won’t believe me but Dad says no and that you don’t want a dog anyway, but I said you do, and that you will allow it, and can we get a big one?” It took the little girl approximately five seconds to say all these words and Sherlock had to concentrate hard to understand them all. Her diction was more advanced than children that age usually had accomplished, but then, Sherlock supposed, that was what happened if John and he raised a child. He holstered the girl up into his arms and she giggled delightedly, if a bit shrilly, as he kissed her cheek. John looked at the two of them with fond exasperation.  
“No way will we fit a dog in here, Anna,” Sherlock told her and she moaned.   
“But Anna Jenkins-,” she started again before John took her from Sherlock.  
“I don’t care about Anna Jenkins, Anna Watson won’t have a dog, not even a small one, in a tiny two-bedroom flat,” he said sternly. Anna pouted and Sherlock, without ever having seen it, recognised his own pout in hers. He had to work hard to suppress a smile and turned his head slightly away. Anna waited a second and then ran back to her chair.  
“Who’s Anna Jenkins?” Sherlock asked John lowly. The look John levelled at him told him John had likely told him a hundred times already.  
“Three Anna’s in Anna’s class, remember?” he replied a bit tiredly.  
“Ah, yes,” Sherlock pretended to remember, “Uncommonly common name, that.” John squinted his eyes at him and was about to say something in response, when Anna interrupted him this time.  
“No fighting in front of the child,” she said and this time it was John Sherlock could recognise in her. He couldn’t fight it any longer and let the smile break through. John sighed exaggeratedly.  
“Your daughter is right,” Sherlock said mockingly, but it was teasing and by the roll of John’s eyes, he knew it. Instead, John leaned up and kissed Sherlock on the mouth.  
“Hi,” he said quietly after and smiled at Sherlock, a very private little smile. Anna pretended to vomit in the background and Sherlock succeeded in shutting her out for a minute, while he grabbed John around the waist to pull him into one more kiss, a more desperate one this time.  
When Sherlock had let him go, John leaned back a bit.  
“Is this how you want to do this?” he asked. The kitchen had gone still around them. Sherlock took a step back and looked around. Anna was no longer there, as were the school things. In fact, the kitchen was tidy and almost empty. Like a blank canvas, waiting to be filled.  
“What?” Sherlock asked. John smiled at him, a patient smile.  
“This,” John gestured at the now empty and silent kitchen. “You came here for comfort, but instead of remembering something calming, you fantasised.” He tutted a bit. “This never happened,” he reminded Sherlock as if Sherlock needed reminding. “And Anna is only a few weeks old, not years.”   
Sherlock was speechless for a moment while John waited for him patiently.  
“No,” he said after a long while but it didn’t sound sure at all. “No fantasies. You’re right.”  
“Good,” John said. He took Sherlock’s hand and led him into the dark living room, equally tidy and clean, the fire extinguished now, and dark. Only one lamp was on in the corner.  
“Sit,” John instructed and Sherlock sat down on the couch, looking up at John for guidance and waiting for what was next. John turned to the side and suddenly there was a baby carrier and in it, the tiniest human being Sherlock had ever seen, almost completely swallowed by blankets.  
“Hold out your arms,” John instructed him again and automatically Sherlock held them out, palms up and waiting. He knew what was going to happen, he had been here before.  
John bent down and freed the sleeping bundle from all of the straps that held it safely in place. When he straightened up again, he held the baby and looked at Sherlock.  
“Ready?” he asked. Sherlock could only nod and swallowed, and then John put the baby down on his lap and arms. It was heavier than it looked, what with all of the blankets and Sherlock held her safe. So carefully.  
John sat down next to him and scooted up to his side. He bent his head over the baby and loosened her blankets so that Sherlock could see her tiny face under the impossibly huge woolen hat.  
“Her name is Anna,” John said quietly, with undeniable pride in his voice. “She’s eleven hours old and wanted to meet you. I already told her everything about you, so she’s understandably excited.” Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes from the sleeping baby’s face, but when he tried to talk, he was surprised at how steady his voice was.  
“She’s asleep,” he stated to John’s delight.  
“Well, she is eleven hours old,” he said lightly. “They sleep a lot at this age. Give her some time and I’m sure she’ll love to meet you in person.” Sherlock hummed and then silence descended onto them. Sherlock looked his share. He wanted to see how much Anna looked like John, wanted to find all the little details that made her her father’s daughter, but instead he just stared. He memorised her face and was sure that this would be the last moment he’d remember before he died, however far in the future that was.  
At some point, John, tired from an exciting day and a longer night, sank back into the couch and slumped against Sherlock’s side. He stayed awake, but just barely. Just because of some left-over adrenaline still pumping through his veins.  
“What are you thinking right now?” he asked out of the blue after minutes of neither man breathing a word. It hit Sherlock then, how uncommon this was.  
“Nothing,” he said and sounded astounded. Trust John Watson to stop the thoughts racing through Sherlock’s head for the first time in all his life, and all it took was to lay a little piece of himself into Sherlock’s arms. John chuckled. He fell asleep not shortly after while Sherlock held watch over both Watsons.  
But after a while the scene changed, no matter how long the night had been then. The baby was gone, and it was only him, and John standing in front of him.  
“Show me again,” John demanded and held out his hand. Sherlock let himself be pulled up from the sofa. John fiddled with the phone that had appeared on the coffee table, which had been pushed to the side to open room on the floor. Then soft music was filling the air and John stood up in the middle of the room, looking nervous and focused, very obviously counting beats. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“Stop counting, I can see your head bob,” he chastened.  
“How else am I supposed to know where we are?” John said affronted. Sherlock shook his head and took John’s hands, laying one on his waist and holding the other while his own hand landed on John’s shoulder. John would lead, however poorly.  
“You have to feel the music,” Sherlock told him for the thousandth time. John only huffed and kept counting, albeit less conspicuously. That would have to do for now.  
They swayed through the room. John had become much better at this, but Sherlock would never admit that as long as it meant he would come back for more lessons. They had drawn the curtains, and a fire was again burning. Between that and the tightly closed door, it had become warm. It meant John would take off his jumper and shirt and was left only in his t-shirt. It clung tightly to him and Sherlock could feel the muscles of his shoulder moving underneath the thin fabric.  
They danced and danced and songs passed, John always demanding another one and Sherlock pretending to indulge him. They grew closer until their chests were touching and hands were clasped between them. Sherlock had taken the lead now and when John’s head fell on his shoulder, neither kept pretending they were practicing.   
“I’d not do it,” John said quietly. “If you’d asked me to. I’d not do it.” It surprised Sherlock into stunned silence, but he found his voice soon enough.  
“That never happened,” he said, accused more, “You said, no fantasies. You never said this.” John looked up at him and his eyes were so honest.  
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true,” he said calmly while Sherlock’s heart beat ever faster. “And you know it, now. The night Anna was born, I took her from the hospital to bring her to you. The happiest day of my life, and all I could think about was sharing it with you. I wanted to share my wedding day with you, too. That’s why I asked you to be my best man, at least that’s what I told myself. But truth is, I could never be truly happy without you by my side.” They had stopped dancing and were staring at each other. Sherlock wanted to believe. He knew he made up everything this John said to him, but it sounded so reasonable. He wanted to see how far he could take it and bent his head down to brush his lips over John’s. John met him halfway only to stop him a hair’s breadth away.  
“That never happened,” he reminded Sherlock, more breath than volume. “Do you want our first kiss to be a fantasy?”  
“I want you to be real,” Sherlock didn’t move away. Even this was better than anything else yet.  
“I love you,” John said and it was what made Sherlock finally back away. He was beaming, he couldn’t help it.  
“That happened,” he said around a huge smile which John reciprocated, topped with warm big eyes that almost seemed brown, they were so dark.  
“And don’t you forget it, love,” John hummed.  
“You called me ‘love’ twice,” Sherlock told a distracted John in their morning light-lit kitchen.  
“What time is it?” John asked. He looked harried, his hair stood up on one side of his head and the bags under his eyes shimmered black. He was looking for something as he was browsing through stacks of paper.  
“9:12,” Sherlock answered. Sherlock sat on one of the chairs, leaning against the backrest, but not slunk against it. He looked a bit fresher than John, but then, he was used to being awake for many hours more than the older man.   
“I have to leave, I have to leave, I’ll be late,” John muttered under his breath. He pulled a sheet of paper from a stack with a triumphant noise.  
“All right!” he said while he scanned the content. “Okay good, where’s my wallet?” He turned on the spot to search the room and Sherlock could just hide his amusement. It was right there, under the loose papers. He cleared his throat and when John’s eyes snapped to his, Sherlock pointed at the mound. With an “Oh” John digged it free.  
“Right. Phone?” he asked next.  
“Died around five, needs charging,” Sherlock explained to John’s eye-roll.  
“Then you’ll just have to refrain from setting the flat on fire today,” he said dryly. Sherlock took a breath to protest but John’s fond, albeit tired, smile stopped him.  
“Eat something and then grab some sleep, okay?” he told Sherlock. “Drink some water. God, I envy you.”  
“Me?”  
“Yeah, you can sleep while I have to go to this thing. If that’s what you get for witnessing a car accident, I’ll turn a blind eye next time.” The smile now broke through on Sherlock’s face.  
“You already are blind, judging by the state of your hair,” he said.   
“My..." John ran to the mirror in the lounge to check himself over. Sherlock heard him groan and followed to see what was going on. He found John frantically rubbing at his hair where it stuck out unruly. Sherlock held out something for him.  
“Your keys,” he said, and added, as John took them, “And it’s now 9:15.”  
“Thanks, love,” John replied with a certain sound of hectic in his voice and gave up on his hair after one more brush. It looked more presentable now. He didn’t notice how Sherlock had fallen limp at the endearment, because already he was grabbing for his coat and running out the door.  
“See you tonight, Sherlock,” he called over his shoulder and ran down the stairs. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot and looked after him in astonishment. He made it a point to be around on hectic mornings, because from time to time John got so distracted, that he would not notice that he touched Sherlock more at those times. A squeeze of the shoulder mostly. But never something like a slipped endearment.  
Sherlock decided to take John’s advice and headed for the bed, for John’s bed. He took the stairs carefully and with each step the light would fade until it was as dark as only the deepest night could make it. Gently he nudged the door at the top of the stairs open, which wasn’t really shut to begin with. John lay on his bed, fast asleep and breathing noisily, but not yet snoring. Sherlock stopped for a moment just to look at all he could make out and at first, he didn’t notice that John’s breathing started changing. When he did, it was already too late and John was awake.  
“Sherlock?” he asked sleepily. “What is it? Case?” He sat up in the bed and turned on the lamp on the bedside table. His eyes were puffy and tiny, and his hair was mussed. He wore a light grey t-shirt that showed off his arms admirably. For another moment, Sherlock’s eyes were transfixed, but he shook himself mentally and limped over to the bottom of the bed. He winced, and only part of it was for show.  
“Your leg still bothering you?” John said with a distinct note of sympathy. He was more relaxed now that he was sure Sherlock hadn’t come for a case but because of the injury he had acquired earlier that day. John sank back into the bed and closed his eyes.  
“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly and waited. For something. He hoped for something. And John didn’t disappoint. He patted the bed on his left side and while Sherlock sat down gingerly, he rummaged around in the bottom drawer of his bedside table where he kept some of his medicines. When he turned back around to Sherlock, he appraised him.  
“Get under the blanket, I don’t want you to freeze.” John’s voice was still rough with sleep and sounded harsher than he meant, at least Sherlock hoped it was so. Slowly he lifted the quilt and put it over his legs. Sherlock wore only boxer shorts, his usual sleep attire, and he was getting a bit cold to be honest.  
John didn’t pay much attention to him as he handled a tube of some ointment. He squeezed a big dollop of it into his right hand and spread it with his fingers.  
“This might sting, and it will be very hot,” he warned. He didn’t warn Sherlock that he would shut the light and then touch him. So Sherlock jumped when John’s hand came down in the middle of his thigh and inched inwards to where he knew Sherlock had strained that muscle. Then Sherlock startled again, because it was indeed very hot. Next to him, John chuckled.  
“Told you.” With the light gone, his voice had become even more sleepy. For a moment Sherlock contemplated telling John that he was more than capable of massaging his own thigh. It wasn’t like his back, he could reach the spot perfectly well himself. But he had to admit that John obviously knew what he was doing. His fingers weren’t idly rubbing circles into Sherlock’s muscle, they were putting pressure, lots of pressure, right where he needed the heat.   
“Better?” John murmured half back to sleep. Sherlock nodded and John hummed. He pulled at Sherlock’s thigh until he somehow manoeuvered Sherlock on his side, his leg bent in the knee, and John’s hand still kept massaging. He was very close to Sherlock’s back, had to be to keep his hand where it was. Sherlock heard him sigh contentedly behind him, all the while Sherlock didn’t even dare breathing. He took stealthy breaths whenever he needed more air, but that was as far as he allowed it.  
John touched Sherlock sometimes. Usually on the shoulder or the arm. Sometimes on the back. Never on his thigh, definitely never on his naked thigh, and definitely never on his naked thigh four inches away from his penis, which started to take an eager interest in the massage. No, Sherlock definitely didn’t dare breathing.  
“Try to relax, love. Won’t do you any favours if you’re stiff as a board,” John chastened Sherlock quietly. But how could Sherlock relax when he both feared and wanted John’s hand to head north? He didn’t know if John would be so brazen and take Sherlock in hand. He had to feel the heat coming of his indeed very stiff flesh, he had to, but as much as Sherlock wanted his hand there more than anything, he didn’t know how he’d react. How he was supposed to react. So, all the while John kept pressing his fingertips into Sherlock’s strained muscle, Sherlock waited for the moment when his fingers would leave and start working on something else. But it never happened and Sherlock couldn’t figure out what that meant.  
The press of John’s fingers got weaker very fast, and slower, and then it stopped completely. He drew his hand from between Sherlock’s legs and put it flat on Sherlock’s naked belly instead. It was hot and tickling a bit, the rest of the ointment still working. It was a bit uncomfortable, but Sherlock couldn’t complain.  
“Should really wash my hand,” John mumbled somewhere behind him. The “but can’t be arsed to get up” got lost in a huge yawn. Now that John settled in for sleep Sherlock was ready to confess that he had wanted John’s hand on his penis, and now that John was sleeping again and Sherlock free to think whatever he wanted without fearing his body would give him away, he had to think about what it said that John hadn’t done it. He must have known about Sherlock’s erection, but still he didn’t go for it. While he had called Sherlock ‘love’ again, that part didn’t fit into the whole narrative. It was very confusing in its contradiction.  
Sherlock put his hand on top of the one on his belly and thought. The scene changed and he was sitting up on their couch, with John by his side holding his hand quietly as Sherlock stared into space. He didn’t even register the sounds from the kitchen until he suddenly did, and he saw John puttering about with the shopping, but John was also sitting on the couch next to him. Open-mouthed Sherlock turned to the John next to him and mustered him. This John smiled tiredly at him, with worry lines around his eyes, but a steady, reassuring smile just for him.  
“Are you with us again?” this John asked and the scene changed again. Now they were in a hospital corridor, one Sherlock had never before been in, and John wore a shirt he had never seen and jeans, and definitely not what he always wore in Sherlock’s mind palace. This was real.  
Sherlock’s eyes fell to their hands where they lay clasped together on John’s thigh, and then up to John’s eyes to see if he was aware of what they were doing. John smiled instead.  
“Hey,” he said and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock felt lost. Never before had John touched him like this somewhere where people could see them, but Sherlock couldn’t even think about this right now, when other thoughts pushed everything to the side.  
“How is he?” he asked in a voice as loud as it was small.  
“He’s okay,” John punctuated this with another strong squeeze of his hand. “The nurse was just here, they’re finishing up as we’re talking. He’ll have a scar, obviously, but the infection didn’t spread to any other organs, nothing that a few weeks’ course of antibiotics won’t kill.”  
“So he’ll be all right?” Sherlock could almost not believe it and needed John to tell him so. John smiled a bit brighter.  
“Yes. He’ll be up and commanding everyone around in no time. In fact, I bet he’s reducing the surgeon to tears already.” Sherlock could finally relax again. He fell against the wall behind them with a soft sound. He took a few very deep breaths.  
“Okay. We can go now,” he said then. John chuckled.  
“No,” he said very decisively. “We’ll stay and wait until he’s woken up, and then you can go and taunt him about having lost a few pounds through an emergency appendectomy. You’ll bicker and insult each other and pretend you don’t care, and then we can go home.” Sherlock pouted, but it was for show, so John ignored it. He still held Sherlock’s hand, and he kept holding it when a nurse came to inform them that ‘Mr Holmes’ had been transferred to the waking room where they could see him. Sherlock was the first on his feet and he pulled John behind.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been living in my drafts folder for a year or so. It's nothing special, just a tiny bit of fluff for a rainy Saturday morning.
> 
> Come and find me on tumblr at yesilian.tumblr.com!


End file.
